Yar-Dart (Or "Is that a Flamingo in Your Garden?")

The title of this blog comes from the summer I interned at Powell Gardens in Kansas City. The highly trained horticulturalists there came from several different schools of Hort but they all agreed that there is a difference between garden chatchkas (flamingos, outlines of a cowboy leaning on a tree, a wooden cut-out of a fat lady's bloomers showing...you get the idea) and garden statuary. The former they termed "yard art" but pronounced it "yar-dart."

I must confess, I have both the highly esoteric garden statuary (St. Fiacre, the patron saint of gardeners; a laughing Buddha; a gargoyle reading a book; a wistful garden fairy, a cardinal {not the guys in Rome, but the bird}). And then there are the more low-brow items (metal sculptures of a very large ant and a mosquito; a lightening rod taken from an old farmhouse, complete with China blue ceramic insulator; a blue reflecting ball; a trio of stylized cattails).

This diverse collection just about sums up my eclectic tastes. I love the Buddha, who smilingly watches over the vegetable garden. Last year, he was at the top of the stair on the front porch when an unfortunate accident with a dog straining at a leash resulted in Buddha doing a full gainer down the stairs and losing part of his nose. He's much safer in the veggie garden.

The reading gargoyle seems particularly appropriate, due to my love of Medieval architecture and reading. He greets visitors at the front stair to the porch. St. Fiacre once stood there, but he is so contemplative that he's happier in the side yard shade garden, which is quiet and peaceful.

Most of my yar-dart has been given over the years by my kids. My step-daughter was the one to find the lightening rod. My son relates to frogs, so he is the one who gave me both the gargoyle and the very self-satisfied looking frog. He also found the St. Fiacre...you wouldn't believe how many garden centers there are selling St. Francis as St. Fiacre. Sacrilege! The big difference is, St. Francis has birds lighting on his outstretched hands, while St. Fiacre cradles a plant with exposed roots and a small shovel. He obviously is in the process of transplanting the delicate shrub.

Each one means something very special to me. I got the metal bugs ('scuse me, "insects") while married to a entomologist. THAT was a big mistake, but the insects aren't. Every few years, I spray paint them to match my mood and the garden they are going to that year. This year, the ant is a lovely day-glo pink and the mosquito a fire-engine red. I used to have a bumble bee as well, until he got lost in the bowels of my shed. Also from that era, I gained a sprinkler sculpted as a preying mantis from a dear friend.

 And yes, they move around, depending on where I think they might show the best. They sometimes change colors, 'tho some of them just get a clear coat to protect them from weather.

 

The very esoteric gazing globe sits on a truck spring, which was a dern sight cheaper than some of the structures they have to put a globe on in the garden stores. And I like the whimsey of the light and airy globe contrasting to the industrial weight of the spring.

 

And that's not even counting the number of whirly-gigs, wind socks, pinwheels and wind chimes I have in the vegetable garden. I call them "scare-rabbits" because the crows seem to mind not at all that they are there, but the rabbits don't chow down on my lettuce, peas and tender beans with that much movement and sound in the garden.

Every few years, I add to the collection and I have to renew the pinwheels in particular because the hops vine seems to want to eat them. I don't think they're actually designed for outdoor use.

I'm thinking next year, I'll get some pink flamingoes, but I don't want just a pair, I want a whole flock. Which might make it difficult for my son, who mows, trims and blows my yard, to maneuver his riding mower around.

Maybe I need a garden gnome.

 

Going Home

(Several years ago, I wrote the following as a favor to a friend to be used in a hospice service. I just recently read it and realized how much it describes my mom.)

I’m headed for Home.
I may not have thought I’d be going Home at this point in my life, but I’m on my way.
The word “Home” can mean so many things to different people.
Earthly home can be warm and welcoming, tense and chilly, cold and formal
Laughing and sharing, terrorizing and brutal, sad and dismal.
I’m going Home now and soon, I’ll know what it's like.
Robert Frost once said, “Home is where, when you have to go, they have to take you in.”
I hope that’s true of God.
I hope God has to take me in, despite my foibles and unkindnesses,
Despite my lack of faith at times.
Despite my sins of pride and sloth, lust and gluttony,
Wrath, envy and greed.
I’ve known them all but I tried to live kindly.
I hope God knows that I tried very hard to be loving
Going Home is fraught with uncertainty.
Will they still like me…will they take me in?
Will I shock them? Or maybe they’ll remember my jokes and laughter?
Will I trip going up the stairs and everyone will laugh and say “that’s just like you”?
Will I get into philosophical debates or discussions of current events?
Will it be like the Garden before the Fall?
They say that we won’t recognize our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters there.
I hope that’s not true.
I hope my family will be there, taking me in, welcoming me Home.
I can’t imagine streets paved with gold.
I think someone made that up…God wouldn’t waste his time on gold streets.
Or making us all play harps…I’d hate that.
I hope I get a job as a guardian, watching over someone still out there
Still far away from Home.
I hope Home will be a garden for gardeners, lush and green and not a bug in sight.
I hope it’ll be a library for book-lovers and a museum for art lovers.
I hope it’ll be a golf course for golfers, with no traps.
Or a mountain for those who thrill to climb, ever higher and higher.
A roller coaster for those who like speed
The wind in hair, the sudden drops and terror
Only to come safely back to Home, breathless and loving life.
I’m going Home now.
God, please have to take me in.

You say toe-May-toe, I say toe-Mah-toe

What was I thinking?

Back in April, when I planted 24 (that's 24 with a twenty and a four) tomato plants, I was craving tomatoes. Those purchased in the store have a cardboard taste to me, even those which claim to be "hot house" or "vine ripened." (You know they're lying when the "vine ripened" ones aren't yet ripe and they are clearly off vine.) I also don't know where those store-boughts have been. Who knows what kinds of pesticides and such they've been sprayed with?

I understand wanting a bumper crop of tomatoes back then, when I had cravings, before it was 110 in the shade. But really, Char, TWENTY-FOUR????

Last year, I got on a fresh salsa kick. Practically every tomato to come off the vine (for real vine-ripened) got partnered with some peppers, a little cilantro, a little lime juice. Heaven. I completely lost my taste for El Paso Salsa. Or Frito-Lay. Or even one of those designer labels which makes salsa out of unnatural vegetables and fruits. Peach salsa? Truly unnatural. (Tho' I must confess my son makes a mean pineapple salsa.) Canning the salsa results in the tomatoes being cooked to death which doesn't taste at all like the fresh stuff.

The other Big Mistake I made was to plant mostly Roma tomatoes. For the uninformed, Romas are paste tomatoes. I envisioned making and canning lots of spaghetti sauce and tomato sauce to hold me over this winter. Too late, my elderly neighbor who I consult about all things gardening told me she never, ever planted Romas, on account of they taste like store-bought tomatoes. Mea culpa.

She's right, by the way. Don't ever plant Romas if you want a real tomato. Their only advantage is, they make a pretty dense sauce. But it tastes like you took store-boughts and made a sauce.

I did plant 4 Cherokee Purples which, I'm told, are on the same taste scale as Brandywines. Not only do they taste really good, they turn all shades of pink, red, purple and white. Truly heaven.

I also had some of last year's Brandywines volunteer, so I left them to grow. Or maybe they're German Johnsons. I even had something I call O. Henry tomatoes last year. So called because they were grown from a wonderful tomato I had at that restaurant in Greensboro called O. Henry's. I swiped the seeds off my plate onto a napkin and shoplifted them home, they were that good. They are later bearing than the Romas, so I'm still waiting for that wonderful, acidic taste that belongs to the lowly O. Henry's.

All of the above mentioned tomato varieties are called "heirloom"...that is, they breed true, unlike all those hybridized monstrosities which have bragging, bold names like "Better Boy" and "Big Girl" and "Beefsteak". Nope, these tomatoes keep their marriage vows and don't have red-headed children when their husband is not.

Did you know that, botanically speaking, tomatoes are fruits and not vegetables...that is, they are the product of a flower and a bumblebee? Did you know that the Europeans used to call tomatoes "poison apples"? They truly thought that tomatoes were poisonous, on account of they hadn't discovered them first. Stupid Europeans.

I also don't know so much about those folks who claim that our Universe was created by an Intelligent Designer. I mean, I could design a better world with one hand tied behind my back...particularly a world in which vegetables and fruits would ripen in the winter. That way, canning wouldn't be such a killer. Nothing I like better than to keep all four burners cranking on my stovetop when it's a record-breaking, heat-stroke-inducing day. Not.

I realize now that I should have stuck with last year's number of plants (12) and not bought any more cages. Because next year, I'll no doubt look at all the cages and think I have to plant that many tomatoes.

I further realize that I'm rhapsodizing at length about my tomatoes so I won't have time to go out there, collect all those Romas and make sauce when it's 110 in the shade.